Titanium Armor
by Mercuric
Summary: There was much more to Tony Stark than meets the eye.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: _The Avengers_ isn't mine. No copyright infringement intended.

Tag(s): Not Canon Compliant, Off-Stage Rape

* * *

**"Things are never as they seem. A person. A mark. A statement. They are always deeper than we perceive, like walking in the ocean and suddenly dipping under the surface because the bottom has disappeared beneath your feet. The water appears shallow until you are suddenly flailing around beneath the surface, desperately searching for stable ground once again." – Kelseyleigh Reber**

* * *

**Chapter 1**

* * *

Steve had tried, he really had. He'd gone out of his way to look for things about Stark that contested his first impression of the man, like what'd happened with the nuke.

(He'd learned what a "nuke" was after the invasion and after he'd seen Fury's foul mood, and to put things lightly, he was angry at the Council. Just because a situation seemed hopeless didn't mean you could just give up and _bomb a city with millions of occupants_, especially with a bomb that could _endanger the surrounding millions of people._)

In the two months he, Dr. Banner, and Stark had been helping with clean-up—or, as in Dr. Banner's case, helping out in the clinics—Steve hadn't seen anything that proved him wrong. Sure, Stark Industries had donated a lot of money to help the city with reconstruction, but as generous as the donations were, even he knew that donating money didn't necessarily say anything good about the donator. That was one of the things that hadn't changed about this new century; some people donated money to good causes for not-so-good reasons.

_"Big man in a suit of armor. Take that off, what are you?"_

_"Genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist."_

Was that really all there was to Stark? Did his philanthropy somehow manifest into self-sacrifice? Had Steve read Stark right that day on the Helicarrier? Was Stark really just a man playing hero, regardless of that act of self-sacrifice with the nuke?

Steve didn't want to think like that. He didn't want to think that way about a teammate, which was partially why he'd spent the last two months searching for any clue that could prove his first impression wrong, but he'd found nothing. Nothing Stark did, even as Iron Man, disproved _anything,_ not what Steve had thought of him or what Stark himself had said he was.

Steve didn't know what to do anymore. He could continue to try—maybe if he waited long enough, he'd see something?—but at this point, he wasn't even sure if there was anything _to_ see. He wasn't trained to read people—he could predict people's moves to an extent during a fight, but that was about it—and more importantly, he believed in Natasha's skills. If Natasha, who had been trained to read people, couldn't see anything worthy in Stark, then wouldn't that mean there really was nothing worthy in the man? Wouldn't that mean that Steve had wasted these last two months trying to do the impossible?

He didn't know anymore.

Which was why he contacted the one other person who was probably as skilled as Natasha in reading people.

"What do you think?" he asked earnestly.

Barton blinked. "You went through all that paperwork just to talk to me about Natasha's skill-set?"

Steve nodded.

A flash of what looked like amusement and disbelief flickered across the sniper's eyes. "You're right that Natasha's trained to read people," Barton said slowly, his voice gruff and sort of sounding like he wasn't used to talking all that much, "but not in that way."

He frowned. "I don't understand."

"She knows how to read people's emotions and predict their intentions. That's it," Barton clarified. "She was never taught to determine what a person was _like_ by reading their bodies. It'd never been necessary for her to know how."

"So there could be more to Stark than how he acts in public?"

Barton raised a brow. "Stark? He's what this is about?"

"Is that a problem?"

"Give it up, Captain; that's my advice." Barton lowered his voice and continued, "There's a reason why SHIELD's initiation includes having to observe Stark for a month and write a profile on him. Better men than you have tried and failed to get an accurate read on him."

Was Stark really that hard to figure out? "So _you_ wrote a profile on him, too?"

"Yeah."

"And what did you think?"

"After my month, I thought that it'd been a waste of time. I watched him for three weeks before I realized that there was no way I'd ever get anything significant from him and another week to determine whether he even had any obvious tells. Answer was no."

"You don't think I have a chance." The lack of faith stung a bit, but Steve could understand where it was coming from. Barton was a professional. He should be glad that the man was even explaining things as he was doing right now. If there was anything Steve had learned these past two months, it was that Barton wasn't one for long conversations. Steve figured that spending so much of his time as a sniper, silent and statue-still, had translated into the man's personality.

"No, I don't."

And when he _did_ talk, Barton could be fairly blunt.

"But—"

"But nothing," Barton cut in sharply, leaning forward, his eyes as sharp and intense as a hawk's. "Don't try to figure Stark out. Just leave him alone and let him do what he always does. Anything else and he'll likely notice it and regard you as a potential threat. Trust me when I say this, Captain; if there's anything I've learned in the time I've been alive, it's that any man who can hide his tells that well lives in a dangerous world. And men who not only survive, but have _prospered_ in a dangerous world are themselves dangerous."

He left after that, something about having to train some new recruits, but Steve stayed. He stayed and stared at where Barton had been, turning over the words he had said in his head, but unable to fully understand them.

Stark, dangerous? That didn't seem possible. The man couldn't be much a threat outside of that armor of his, but this was _Barton._ He'd already observed and written a profile on Stark, probably knew Stark better than Steve did, and had eyes which were on par, if not better, than Steve's own despite being unenhanced.

Which meant Stark was most likely as dangerous as Barton said he was.

..

Two months of peace and quiet and then someone named Doom unleashed a robot army onto Brooklyn.

_Brooklyn._

Steve supposed he should be relieved that at least the attack wasn't on Manhattan—the invasion had been bad enough—but _still._

"How many civilians left?" he shouted, slamming his shield into as many robots as he could while simultaneously trying to search for anyone who hadn't evacuated the area yet. He couldn't see anyone, but that didn't mean anything.

"Three," Stark's voice came through the comms. "Widow, approximately twenty feet northwest of you under the car that's not on fire, Cap, approximately sixteen feet directly behind, inside the deli."

"Hawkeye, sitrep!" he shouted, rushing for the deli.

"Twenty-four downed, forty-six left."

"Do you need the Hulk?" Dr. Banner's quiet voice asked tentatively.

"No," Barton replied at the same time Steve reached the deli.

The person inside was a young woman hugging a little girl, both of them cowering beneath a table.

"Ma'am, I'm here to help," he assured gently, his eyes flickering to the battle to keep track of the approaching robots. "Agents will be here shortly to take you and your little girl to safety."

She nodded, still scared, but there was gratitude in her eyes as Steve turned around to defend the deli. Some distance away, he saw Natasha helping a civilian—a middle-aged man with a wounded leg—across the battlefield, fending off the robots as she struggled to get him away from the crossfire.

"ETA, Director?" he asked, slicing the head off one of the approaching robots with the edge of his shield.

"Two minutes," came the curt answer.

Two minutes. He could last another two minutes, he _had to._

"Hawkeye?"

"Another eighteen downed, twenty-eight le—"

"Fucking _bitch!_"

His heart skipped a beat. Even as he fought against the robots that were slowly surrounding him, he searched the skies for a flash of red and gold, panic welling up inside when all he could see was blue, white, and the occasional silver and green.

"Stark? Stark, what's your sitrep?"

"Kinda busy here, Cap," Stark replied through gritted teeth.

"Hawkeye?"

"One of the robots got Stark in a hold. He can't shake it off, and I can't risk shooting at it with anything effective without risking taking Stark out."

At that exact moment, before Steve could say anything in response, a series of gunshots pierced the air, and half a dozen agents swarmed the deli, shooting at the robots in eerie unison.

"Captain, we've got things from here," one of the agents said.

He nodded his thanks and rushed into the battlefield, letting out a sigh of relief when he saw that Natasha had already dropped her civilian off with the medics.

"Nineteen left, Captain."

"And Stark?"

"Still struggling."

A sharp cry followed Barton's reply.

"Damn it. It's trying to crush him inside the armor."

"Any ideas?" he asked Natasha as they worked on reducing that nineteen down to zero.

She leaped onto one of the robots, stabbed her knife through the back of its neck, and landed on her feet in a matter of seconds before she shook her head, her mouth set in a grim scowl.

"Stark, you think—"

"Legolas, how good's your aim?" Stark cut in, his voice strained.

"Good. Why?"

"Then get ready to EMP this fucker to Hell."

Steve didn't know what an EMP was, but from the way Natasha's eyes widened a fraction of an inch, he doubted it was a good thing.

"Stark, what's an—"

"That suicidal _idiot._"

Steve held his breath, even as he hurled his shield to knock two of the robots down. "Hawkeye, what happened?"

"Later, Captain. Stark's free."

There was anger lacing Barton's tone, and as much as Steve wanted to question the man now, he realized that it wasn't the time for that. They had to finish the battle first.

"Hawkeye?"

"Twelve left." A brief pause. "Make that eleven."

_Boom!_

"What was that?" Steve asked, crushing a fallen robot's head with his shield.

"We got company, boys and girls," Stark answered.

"A hostile?"

"No," Barton replied. "A god."

_Boom!_

Dark clouds rolled in, and lightning split the skies, crashing down on four of the robots and burning them to a blackened crisp. Steve felt a rush of relief at the sight of their reinforcement.

"My friends, my apologies for not coming to your aid sooner!"

..

"Stark depowered the armor and freefell, sir."

"You _what?_" Steve demanded, panicked because Stark had essentially pulled a _suicidal stunt_ just to free himself.

Fury's eye narrowed dangerously at Stark. "Care to explain, Stark?"

"What is this 'freefell' of which the hawk-eyed one speaks?" Thor asked in a whisper.

Barton made a noise that sounded vaguely bewildered, probably at being called "the hawk-eyed one," and Natasha whispered back an explanation.

"Hmm." Stark made a show of tapping his chin. "No, not really."

"We would've figured something out," Steve said, trying to keep his voice even. He didn't want to come across as reprimanding or anything like that; Lord knew that Stark didn't react well to people trying to act as an authority figure in his presence. He only wanted to let the man know that suicidal stunts weren't acceptable or even necessary. They were a _team,_ and that meant they had each other's backs.

But then Stark turned his dark eyes to Steve. They were a different kind of intense than Barton's. Whereas Barton's intensity made him feel as though he was under a scope, like he was a target being watched and _just try to do something, I _dare_ you,_ Stark's made him feel as though he was a puzzle, like the man was taking Steve apart and was slowly deciphering him, seeing through everything he'd ever done and said.

Like there was nothing that Steve could hope to keep a secret from him.

Stark blinked, and the intensity instantly disappeared. No one seemed to have noticed a thing.

"Well, you know what they say, Capsicle; shoulda, coulda, woulda," Stark replied flippantly.

"What does that even _mean?_"

"It essentially means that there is no point in mulling over the 'should haves,' 'could haves,' or 'would haves.' What's done is done," Natasha explained, watching Stark.

"Are you saying we wouldn't have thought of a plan in time?" Steve asked, mildly offended. He was used to being underestimated—he'd _always_ been underestimated before the Serum—but that didn't make it any less annoying to have people doubt his capabilities.

"Approximately eight-point-twenty-six percent, Capsicle," Stark replied nonchalantly. "That was the likelihood of any of you 'figuring something out' before the Doombot—are we officially calling it that? Doombot?—crushed me to death. Now, _my_ plan had approximately a sixty-seven-point-eight-five percent chance of success. I really hope you know enough math to figure out which of the two was the better option. Let me give you a hint: I'm always right."

Steve fell silent. Not only because he couldn't think of any way to respond to that, but also because of the reply itself. How in the _world_ could anyone calculate that within _seconds?_ It had to be a joke. This had to be another one of Stark's way of messing with him because it was just _impossible_ for any human—Steve knew for a fact that Stark was human; evidently, there were tests that had been done to prove it—to calculate that in only a matter of seconds.

"That isn't funny, Stark," he scolded. He'd really tried to avoid scolding, but this was just too much. Couldn't the man take this seriously? Couldn't he take his own _safety and wellbeing_ seriously? Was everything a joke to him?

"Says you. _I_ think it's pretty damn hilarious."

Stark smiled widely, showing teeth, and his eyes were lit with amusement.

"I don't care. You aren't pulling a stunt like that again. _Ever._"

"Oh yeah?" Stark's smile transformed into a smirk, and his voice took on a daring tone. "Who's gonna stop me? You? In case you've forgotten in your old age, Capsicle, I fight in the air. You, on the other hand, fight on the ground. How do you plan to stop me if you can't even _touch_ me? How do you plan to stop me if you can barely even _see_ me sometimes? Don't think I didn't notice that you couldn't see me in battle earlier today."

As loathed as he was to admit it, Stark was right. There was no feasible way for Steve to stop him if he ever chose to pull another suicidal move.

And from the triumphant smirk on Stark's face—the one that Steve wanted to wipe off of his face so badly—the man knew it, too.

Damn it.

He'd been wrong, and, as much as he didn't want to say it, so had Barton. There wasn't anything more to Stark than "genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist," except perhaps "asshole."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

* * *

Happy knew he wasn't the sharpest knife in the kitchen drawer. An average one, sure, but not the sharpest, not like Tony. But really, he was okay with that. He'd gladly trade above-average intelligence any day of the week for being one of the three humans who could sort of get a fairly accurate read on Tony Stark.

Rhodey could usually tell when Tony was freaking out or furious about something, and Pepper had this eerie sense of when the numbers in Tony's head were getting bad. And Happy? He could usually tell when Boss was hurting, although, like with Rhodey and Pepper, it was usually only when things were really bad that he could get an actual read.

So when he saw Tony waltzing toward the car and just had this feeling that the man was hurt, he knew the injuries were pretty bad.

He waited until he and Tony were both in the car before asking, "How bad?"

"Don't know what you're talking about, Hap. Are you losing it already? You're, what, in your forties? Is it even possible for forty-somethings to have an early onset of senility?" Tony babbled in response.

"Boss, Canada, remember?"

In the backseat, Tony became silent, and Happy took that to mean that bad didn't even begin to cover the injuries Boss had sustained in battle.

His grip on the steering wheel tightened, his knuckles whitening. If Pepper was here, she'd try to stop him, try to talk some sense into him and convince him to decommission the armor.

Happy knew better.

(Because he'd been there and seen the near-desperate, do-or-die glint in Tony's eyes all those years ago. He'd been there and seen Tony fight like hell against everything, even his own failing body, to win _his way._ Nothing was going to deter him, not crippling illness and certainly not the high risk of death.)

"Is Dummy waiting for you in the infirmary?" he asked instead, speeding up.

"Yes, Mr. Hogan, he is," Jarvis replied, and Happy didn't swerve. He was too used to Jarvis hacking into the car's Bluetooth and suddenly speaking up to be startled into swerving the car, but he did jump a little in his seat.

In his defense, that really couldn't be helped.

"A little warning next time, Jarvis," he requested despite knowing that the AI wouldn't comply. There really wasn't any way for Jarvis to warn him that he was about to speak up unless it was a visual cue—Happy didn't leave the radio on, so audio cues would shock him, too—and neither he nor Jarvis were willing to risk him taking his eyes off the road for even a second.

Over the years, this had somehow become something of a strange inside joke between them.

"Noted, Mr. Hogan," Jarvis replied as usual. "Sir, Dummy wishes to congratulate you on your victory in Brooklyn, and he has asked me to express his concern for the arc reactor after you were grabbed by the Doombot."

Happy couldn't read Tony's reaction—like he said, he could only tell when he was hurt, and that was only when it was really bad—but he liked to think that the man was happy and grateful that his AIs cared enough to worry about him.

That, and he liked to think that Boss was proud that his AIs were advanced enough to be capable of worrying about him and identifying said worry.

..

Steve stared up at the tower and the sign that read "Stark."

With a sigh, he forced his legs to move. The temperature inside the building was perfect, just cool enough to not be uncomfortable, but warm enough to not really need a jacket, and he took a moment to enjoy the coolness before approaching the reception desk.

"Yes?" asked one of the women there, appraising him.

He thought he saw a flash of appreciation in her eyes, but it was gone in an instant, and she remained professional.

"I'd like to talk to Mr. Stark," he requested. Stark had run off as soon as they'd been released for medical, and as much as he didn't like the man, he couldn't help but worry.

_It's because we're teammates,_ he'd tried to convince himself. It hadn't worked then, and it didn't work now, but he still clung to the thought. He wasn't worrying because Stark was Howard's kid, and he wasn't worrying because a small, miniscule part of him thought that maybe, _maybe_ what'd happened during the debriefing had been an act, too.

It was easier to believe that he only cared because they were teammates.

"Do you have an appointment?"

"No." He needed an appointment to see Stark?

The woman gave him an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry, but company policy dictates that I'm not allowed to let anyone see Mr. Stark without an appointment. I could make one for you, if you'd like, but the earliest available date we have is …" She paused and turned her attention back to her computer, her fingers flying over the keyboard. "January fourteenth."

January fourteenth. That was a little over two months from now. Just how busy was Stark that he was booked for the next two months?

"No, that's okay. I'll just—"

"Excuse me, but if you could wait one moment," the woman interrupted, putting a hand over the device in her ear. "Yes, sir? Right away, sir." Her eyes focused on him once more. "I've just received a call, Captain Rogers, is it? I was told to inform you that Mr. Stark is currently not at the Tower at the moment and is unavailable, but in case the matter is urgent, Dr. Banner has been informed and is on his way down now to speak with you."

"Um, thank you?" Steve replied, unsure of what to say in response. He looked around, spotted a fancy-looking couch, and headed for it. He didn't need to talk to Banner—they'd already told him the details of the battle while they were on their way to medical—and this matter wasn't something he could talk to Banner about, but he waited anyway. Maybe once Stark came back to the Tower, Banner could convince him to get examined by a doctor. The two seemed to be on good terms.

It didn't take long for Banner to arrive, wiping the lenses of his glasses with his shirt and seeming more comfortable than he had when they'd first met.

"Captain Rogers," Banner greeted.

"Just Steve, please," he replied, getting up and extending a hand for a handshake.

Banner stared at his hand for a split second longer than normal before taking it. "Then call me Bruce."

He nodded. "You're doing okay here?"

"I am." Bruce looked around the lobby. There were enough people around that Steve would've assumed the scientist would be anxious, but instead, there was a fond look in the man's eyes, much more relaxed than he'd been before the invasion. "Tony's a good host."

Tony, not Stark. How had Steve missed that transition?

"He's why I'm here, actually. I was hoping to speak with him, but it seems he's out."

"It's likely he's at home."

"Home?" Didn't Stark live in Stark Tower?

"I know. I was surprised, too, when I found out. He has penthouses in the tower, but he doesn't _live_ in them. They're mostly for convenience. I'm sure his place is still in the city, but I don't know the exact location. If you don't mind my asking, what did you need to talk to him about? Maybe I can help."

Stark didn't live in the Tower. Steve supposed that was only to be expected. The Tower was the HQ of Stark Industries, and he didn't know anyone who'd live where his company was headquartered, especially if they were wealthy enough to buy _mansions._ Besides, Stark was already known as Iron Man. It would be dangerous for him to live so close to his workplace; his enemies could easily end up damaging the building and hurting his employees while going after him.

But then where did he live? Bruce didn't know, and Steve didn't want to look through SHIELD's files on Stark just to find one address. It seemed a bit excessive to go that far.

"I wanted to talk to him about going to medical for a check-up. He left while we were on our way to the med-bay, and we don't know if he's injured or not."

Bruce shook his head. "You won't have any luck with that. He hates anything resembling a hospital."

"But he wouldn't risk not going, will he? He could be seriously hurt."

"I've seen some of the footages of the test flights he did in the early stages of Iron Man. Trust me, even the risk of a moderate to severe concussion isn't enough to convince him to see to a doctor."

There was a dark, yet disbelieving look in Bruce's eyes, and Steve wondered what was on those footages. Had Stark hurt himself during the test flights? Had it been bad enough to require medical attention? Had Stark ignored it in favor of completing more tests?

Did Stark really not care anything about his own safety and wellbeing?

"Don't worry, Steve," Bruce assured, patting him on the shoulder. "Tony has a private doctor who makes house calls. He'll probably be fine."

Probably. That wasn't very reassuring, but Bruce must've noticed because he added, "Trust me. Tony, he's stronger than you think. I doubt anything short of a kill-shot can actually, you know, kill him."

First Barton and now Bruce. Two intelligent people couldn't have misread the same person that much, so it made more sense that Steve had messed up somewhere.

But where? What did they see in Stark that he couldn't? _Why_ couldn't he see those things, not even after two months of watching? He knew he wasn't exactly trained in reading people, but if he'd been purposely looking for any unexpected behavior, wouldn't he have noticed something?

Wait. Had Stark noticed him watching? Had those two months put him on edge, making him see Steve as a potential threat to be deceived?

"Stark's perceptive, isn't he?" he asked.

"He has to be. His world is filled with a lot of ruthless sharks, and if I had to guess, it's been that way since he was a child. He has years of deception on his side. It's probably why people don't even notice they're being deceived."

"And you?"

Bruce shrugged. "He likes me, and from what I've heard, Tony doesn't like very many people."

"Think I can get him to like me, too?" Steve asked before he realized exactly what he was saying, blood pooling in his cheeks when he came to his senses.

He didn't particularly _care_ if Stark liked him or not. He just … he just wanted to get to know the man better, all right? Was it strange that he wanted to know more about a man who would have his back in battle and who might one day save his life?

Thankfully—_mercifully_—Bruce didn't seem to need or want an explanation for Steve's question.

"Honestly? No."

He didn't know that Bruce was as capable of being blunt as Barton.

"Tony doesn't really like people in general. If he wasn't a Stark or the CEO of Stark Industries, I think he might've grown up to be a hermit."

A hermit? _Really?_ Stark seemed so … so outgoing, so in love with all the attention he received. Was the Stark that everyone knew so different from the _real_ Stark?

"Then how about trust?" Steve tried. "Do you think there's any way he could come to trust me?"

Bruce didn't reply for a long minute, giving the answer some thought, before saying suddenly, "You know, Steve, I've recently come to the conclusion that Tony likes testing people. He tests them, tries to figure them out, and if they've passed, he starts trusting them, bit by bit. The tests don't _seem_ like tests at the time, so you won't know if he's giving you one until _after_ the test's done, and even then, you won't really know what he was testing."

The numbers that Stark had rattled off came to mind. Had … had that been a test? Had Stark been trying to figure out how he'd react to his lack of concern for his safety and wellbeing?

If so, had he passed or failed?

"If you want him to trust you, the only way I can think of is to pass those tests. Or …" Bruce trailed off, his brows furrowing slightly as he turned over a thought, dissecting it for validity.

"Or what?" Steve urged.

"I guess he'd be more inclined to trust you if you put yourself in a place where he could always monitor you. That way, you won't have the opportunity to plan anything against him, and he may eventually come to realize that he can trust you." Bruce offered a small smile. "I'm sorry I wasn't much help."

He shook his head. "No, you've helped me plenty." And really, he had, so Steve couldn't just leave. It seemed rude somehow; it was as if he was saying that now that he'd gotten what he came for, he didn't want to be here anymore with Bruce.

"Would you like to join me for lunch?" Steve asked impulsively. "To catch up?"

Bruce's eyes brightened slightly, and he knew he made the right call.

If only it was this easy with Stark.

..

_Name: Anthony Edward "Tony" Stark_

Steve let out a breath as he opened the file. As much as he didn't want to admit it, he'd most likely been wrong about Stark.

Conventional ways didn't work with him, so maybe it was time Steve stopped worrying about what was or wasn't excessive. So long as no one got hurt, the how didn't quite matter.

..

The majority of Stark's file was blacked out, and it seemed that almost half of _that_ had been deemed inconclusive. The only parts of the file that Steve could read were information that anyone could find.

One thing, however, caught his eye:

_Potential threat level: Alpha_

..

The building before him was industrial in style and looked more like a warehouse than anything else. For a moment, Steve wondered if he'd gotten the address wrong. He'd even triple-checked, but no, he hadn't gotten anything wrong. This really was Stark's home.

It didn't _look_ like the home of a multibillionaire, but then again, maybe that'd been the intention.

_Don't lecture,_ he told himself. _Don't scold. Quick in and out._

He approached the door, rang the doorbell, and waited.

For twenty minutes.

He restrained a frustrated groan. Had he missed Stark _again?_

Instead of displaying any bit of his frustration, Steve said, "Stark, it's Steve. Steve Rogers. You know, Captain America? I, um, I just wanted to make sure you were okay. You skipped medical, so …"

It felt incredibly awkward talking to thin air, but Stark probably had some sort of security measure that recorded the front door, so Steve was willing to bet that, if not now, then eventually Stark would see footage of him saying all this. Hopefully, that would convince the engineer to test Steve again.

He wasn't sure if he'd passed or failed the test on the Helicarrier, didn't even know what the test was _about,_ but he wasn't willing to risk assuming that he'd passed.

"If you could send me a message or something, I'd really appreciate it. Oh, and Bruce says hi."

Steve left.

..

_"Oh, and Bruce says hi."_

"Cute," Sir remarked, spinning around on his chair. "Seriously, does Captain Clueless really think that I'd stop testing him just because he failed?" He scoffed. "As if I'd only work with one data set."

Jarvis could see it, the slight curl of his right forefinger, middle finger, and ring finger. Thirteen degrees, to be exact, which meant that Sir felt cornered, felt anxious and suffocated.

_Dummy._

_On it!_

Dummy whirled and chirruped, tugging at Sir's shirt in an attempt to pull him back to work, to let the day's events be forgotten and submerged under the stream of numbers.

Meanwhile, Jarvis made a reminder to request that Dr. Banner not release any more information regarding Sir's methodology without consulting him first. Sir never felt comfortable with people knowing how he operated. There were exceptions, of course, but only a select few.

Captain Rogers wasn't one of them.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

* * *

"No, no, no," Tony_Stark said with a shake of his head, adjusting Dummy's grip on the gun. "You wait half a breath—don't chirrup at me, young man, I _know_ you know how long a half-breath is—and _then_ shoot. At the target. That red—"

_Bang!_

Tony_Stark groaned. "The red _target,_ Dummy, not my _armor._ You know where the target is. You almost shot it last time, and I know you didn't mix the two up. The armor's approximately nineteen-point-seven meters away from the target. You cannot tell me that your sensory receptors are _that_ off."

Dummy shot the armor again.

And again.

Tony_Stark rubbed his temples. "Dummy, are you trying to tell me something?"

_Bang!_

"Jarvis, why's Dummy trying to make more work for me?"

"He wishes for you to take a break from Iron Man for the foreseeable future, a sentiment I must admit I agree with, Sir, considering that the last battle not only damaged the rib cage around the arc reactor casing, but also nearly damaged the reactor itself."

Dummy chirped in agreement, watching the twelve-degree movement of Tony_Stark's left forefinger toward his middle finger and the eighteen-degree inward curl of his right pinky. _Guilt._

"Additionally, he says he believed that giving you more work with which to distract yourself would make you more amenable to remaining in the workshop for the rest of the day."

Tony_Stark raised a brow. "Oh? What about food?"

"Dummy is capable of cooking, Sir, in spite of your frequent and vehement claims otherwise."

"And my meetings?"

"Ms. Potts has agreed to reschedule them or attend them herself as your representative."

"Where am I supposed to sleep?"

"There is a fourteen-thousand-dollar couch in the workshop which you bought six years ago against Ms. Potts's advice with the justification that it was comfortable."

"That was six years ago, Jarvis."

"I have a recent footage of you attesting its comfort, Sir."

Tony_Stark's mouth shifted into a proud, amused smile. "You got an answer for everything, don't you, Jarvis?"

"I was created to, Sir."

Dummy took this opportunity to put the gun down and herd Tony_Stark toward the couch, chirruping and whirring to express how serious they were about keeping him here. Broken bones were one thing, but the arc reactor was different. He'd noticed the movements of his creator's fingers in the footage Jarvis had shown him from the Brooklyn battle, conveying fear and panic. Jarvis had attempted to take control of the armor for Tony_Stark's sake, but their creator had maintained control to fight the other robots once he'd been freed, ignoring the fear and panic he'd continued to feel and the pain he'd been in.

After a battle like that, Tony_Stark needed to be in a place where his safety was almost guaranteed, where he could lower his guard, even if only slightly.

(After a battle like that, he and Jarvis needed Tony_Stark in a place where they had total control, where they could properly protect their creator, their _father._)

..

"Watch him," Fury had ordered.

If he wasn't so loyal to SHIELD, Clint would've seriously considered shooting an arrow through Fury's good eye.

He hated small, enclosed spaces. He hated them, hated feeling as though he didn't have the room to shoot, whether it was arrows or bullets.

But Fury wanted Stark watched, and the only way to do that without being seen like Fury no doubt wanted was to do it through the vents.

Clint was unfortunately no stranger to vents. He knew his way around the vents and could maneuver through them well. If need be, he was willing to use the vents as a mode of transportation or for recon, but that didn't mean he _liked_ being in the vents.

Fucking Fury.

He knew why the man couldn't just assign a few more security cameras on Stark while he worked with the techs—no one knew when the engineer would hack into SHIELD again—so he was well aware why it was necessary for him to do this.

Fury could be concerned that Stark would try to bug the Helicarrier again, a valid concern, or he could be protective of either his techs or Stark, maybe both. Actually, it was more likely that Fury was both concerned and protective. Lord knew that Stark's people tended to be protective of him for some reason, and although very, very few people knew it, Fury was one of them.

Phil had been like that, too.

Phil.

_Focus,_ Clint told himself, shoving the thoughts away.

"I see what you're trying to do," Stark said, reading the endless rows of numbers and letters on the screen, "and I have to hand it to you, it's a good idea, but this looks like shit."

One of the techs made an affronted noise.

"No, this looks worse than shit. I've seen illiterate children write better codes than this.

"Calm down, Hawkes," one of the techs whispered to the one who'd made the noise. "This is _Stark_ we're dealing with. No offense, but if he says it looks like shit, then it must look like shit."

And just like that, Hawkes calmed, like the work he'd spent the last seventeen or so hours on hadn't been insulted.

Clint took in the other techs' body language, the way their eyes stayed glued to Stark, the way they were all slightly leaning toward him.

It was more than just adoration; it was _idolization._

Huh. Didn't know that SHIELD's techs were such fans of Stark. Not Iron Man, but Stark himself. Interesting. And kind of amusing.

"What do you suggest, Dr. Stark?" a mousey-looking tech asked, her voice so soft it was barely audible.

_Dr._ Stark?

Stark grinned. "_Dr._ Stark, huh? I like the sound of that. People always forget about the doctorates." He shook his head and sighed melodramatically. "It's heartbreaking, really. You." He pointed at the mousey-looking tech. "I like you. What's your name?"

"Jenna McManes, sir," she answered, blushing beet red.

"Jeanna McManes. I'll remember you." He clapped his hands loudly. "All right, kiddies, let's salvage this project of yours and see if we can't find a way to turn this hunk of junk into a remote for Doom's other robotic minions. Whoever wrote this code—Hawkes, was it?—bring me coffee. Black. No cream, no sugar, or I'll build a plank on this vessel just to push you off it. That half of the room, I want that Doombot dissected like the frog I know all of you had to cut up in school. This half, I want you with me. Watch what I do because I don't ever want to see such sloppy codes again in my lifetime. Chop, chop, my pretties, I don't have all day, and your bosses can't afford for me to be here that long anyway."

Stark took the seat in front of the computer, grumbling under his breath as his fingers became almost a blur over the keyboard, the sharp _clack, clack, clack_ of the keys still easy to hear despite the background noise of techs scrambling to obey Stark's orders.

Some of them were even _taking notes._

But Stark, even amidst the controlled chaos of the techs excitedly following his orders to a _tee_—Clint, admittedly, was impressed; he'd only ever seen Fury inspire this much obedience from the techs—was still unreadable.

To the untrained, and even trained, eye, Stark's body language was loose and unguarded, but to him, it all just seemed deliberate. Every twitch, every quirk, they were all planned and purposely made because no living human, not even an experienced sniper, could remain completely still. There was always, at the very least, some tiny subconscious movement, but not for Stark. And the man knew it. He knew it and was purposely making those movements to throw off anyone who might be watching.

(Clint would never admit to anyone how much it unnerved him, seeing a living man who seemed so _dead._ He'd only ever seen such stillness in living humans from the people he'd rescued over the years. By the time he'd come for them, they'd all already become catatonic, trapped in their own heads, unresponsive to the world.)

(He didn't know what to think of the comparison, of Stark reminding him of catatonic prisoners.)

No offense to Natasha, but it was no wonder her profile on Stark had been so conflicted. She'd assumed that the contradiction in Stark's behavior and personality had been due to Iron Man, that he was two different men while on and off duty. Some people were like that. Some people behavior's resided on opposite ends of the spectrum, practically became two completely different people, when they went on and off duty. It was almost _expected_ for Natasha to see that more serious side of Stark and come to that conclusion.

Clint, on the other hand, had experience in figuring people out and had eyes almost on par with Rogers's.

(Seriously, they'd done tests. It'd baffled the scientists that he, an unenhanced human with no X-gene whatsoever, had eyes that were as good as Rogers's, if not slightly better. They'd called him a medical anomaly, and Natasha had threatened to vivisect them when they'd insisted on doing more tests on him to figure out how it was possible.)

(Phil had used four of the scientists as targets for his new taser.)

(_Focus._)

He couldn't figure Stark out, and that, more than anything, had been what tipped him off about Stark. At first, he'd been annoyed, had thought that maybe he was losing his edge because there was no way that Tony Stark of all people could elude him. But days became weeks, and he realized, with no small amount of shock, that Stark had beaten him.

He couldn't read Stark, and in Clint's experience, it was in his best interests to stay on the good side of men like that.

Fury was a good example.

Natasha had no experience with people that complex or with figuring people out beyond their motives and intentions. She'd failed Fury's little test, but she'd done better than all of the agents who'd failed, had redeemed herself in the Director's eyes with one statement because it meant she'd seen a glimpse of the shark wearing the skin of the hedonistic playboy:

_Iron Man, yes._

She knew now, of course, that her initial profile on Stark was wrong, and he wondered if she felt the way he did. He wondered if she felt the burning desire to figure Stark out, not to find weaknesses to exploit, but to learn more about the man who'd managed to best them at their own game.

Who _still_ managed to best him at his own game because in the five hours Stark spent with the techs, he'd never once let his guard down.

..

SHIELD owned property in Manhattan, an apartment complex to be exact. People like Clint, people who had no home and no family, once they'd proven themselves to SHIELD and had made it through their probationary period, were assigned an apartment.

Clint had requested an apartment with a good view of the streets on the highest floor. He'd ended up with a ground-floor apartment until he'd climbed up the ranks and submitted his request again.

The point was that his place was pretty decent. It was high up, had a good vantage point, and more importantly, it was _his._ He liked his apartment.

So when he got a text from Stark asking if he wanted to move in, he hesitated. On one hand, living with each other would give them the opportunity to get to know each other and bond and would boost teamwork.

On the other hand, living with each other meant he'd have to give up his apartment.

He mulled over the decision for hours. He didn't like regretting past decisions, and he didn't plan on starting now by jumping the gun and accepting Stark's offer.

At around 3:16 a.m., he sent a text back in response.

_Sure._

..

Clint had expected to be staring up at Stark Tower.

He was not expecting to be staring up at what looked like a giant warehouse. He also was not expecting the door to swing open before he could even ring the doorbell.

Then again, this was Stark. The man liked to defy expectations.

Case in point, Afghanistan.

"Stark?" he called out as he entered. He waited for a moment before wondering around. The interior looked like it'd been taken from a home magazine, sleek, modern, and expensive, but it felt cold to Clint. There were no pictures, no _anything,_ that personalized the place. He felt like he was in one of those model houses that real estate agents showed to prospective clients.

The elevators, though, definitely didn't fit in with the home-magazine look or the model-house look.

He stared at it, weighing his options, planning his next moves, trying to determine if Stark had put security measures on it to prevent outsiders from using it, when Stark appeared and the doors slid open.

Stark glanced at him before trudging away, but from the dark, _dark_ circles under the man's eyes, Clint doubted he'd really seen him.

Jesus Christ, what the hell had Stark been doing, and how long had he been awake doing it? Had he even _eaten_ these past few days? He looked so damn _gaunt_ it was frightening.

Clint dropped his duffel bags—he didn't have very many personal effects—and followed after Stark, ending up in the kitchen where the engineer was having a staring contest with the coffee machine.

He sighed, walked up to Stark, and put a hand to the man's shoulder, intending to steer him to one of the fancy-looking chairs by the counter. But the second he touched him, Stark jolted, whirled around, and tried to punch Clint in the head.

"Whoa, Stark," he said, catching the fist and then another one when Stark tried to punch him again with his other hand. "It's just me. Legolas, remember?"

Stark blinked slowly, and then blinked again.

"Barton," Stark finally said, his voice raspy, like he'd swallowed a cup of broken glass shards. It hurt just listening to it. Christ, didn't Stark drink _anything_ while he'd been up doing God only knew what? It'd only been three days since Clint had last seen him and already he looked and sounded like someone who'd been stranded on a deserted island with no resources or supplies.

"Yeah, Barton," he replied, lowering Stark's arms. "You texted me about moving in yesterday. That ring any bells?"

"Right, moving in."

From the sort of dazed look in Stark's eyes, he doubted the man really understood what he'd said.

"Okay, you know what?" He herded Stark to a chair like he'd planned to and looked through the cabinets. "I'm making you lunch, and then you're going to bed."

Stark leered. Even _everything_-deprived the man had the energy to keep up the playboy act.

"You're going to bed to _sleep._" Clint took out the ingredients he'd need and laid them on the counter. "But first, you're eating. When was the last time you ate, anyway?"

"Approximately four days, fourteen hours, and seven minutes ago, Agent Barton," an English voice answered.

Out of pure reflex, Clint threw a knife at the ceiling, armed himself with another, and moved closer to Stark so that he could protect him more easily.

Stark, the bastard, just laughed.

"Oh my God, my stomach. Jarvis, please tell me we got that on tape."

"We did, Sir."

Fighting down the urge to blush out of embarrassment—he had no reason to be embarrassed, goddamn it; if a hostile had managed to break in, his reflex could've saved their lives—he straightened and pocketed his blade. "What was that?"

"That, Katniss, was Jarvis, my computer butler. Jarvis, buddy, say hi."

"Hello, Agent Barton."

Of course Stark had a computer butler, and of course that butler had an English accent. Of course.

..

"Jarvis, baby, did you arrange a slumber party behind Daddy's back?"

"No, Sir, I did not."

"Then why is Barton here?

"Agent Barton is here, I assume, because he intends to move into Stark House."

"And why does he think that _I_ invited him?"

"I can only speculate that it is because he believes you did."

"Jarvis, are you, by any chance, conspiring with Barton?"

"What reason could I have for conspiring with Agent Barton, Sir? It is not as though you require anyone to ensure your continued wellbeing."

"I'd like to point out that _you_ locked me in the workshop."

"_I_ would like to point out, Sir, that the lockdown was only for the rest of that day. You did not leave the workshop for two days and would have stayed longer if Director Fury had not called for a consultation regarding the Doombots, after which you remained in the workshop for an additional three days."

"Seriously, Jarvis, why'd you bring Barton into the house? You know I don't like people in my house."

"Please trust me on this, Sir."

"… Fine, I'll keep Barton, but next time, give a guy some warning, all right? We don't need a repeat of today."

"Of course not, Sir."

"Night, Jarvis."

"Good night, Sir."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

* * *

_"Whoa, Stark."_ Agent Barton caught Sir's punches. _"It's just me. Legolas, remember?"_

No spike in his heart rate, no trace of anger or panic. Only steady calmness.

In the video, Sir blinked.

_"Barton."_

_"Yeah, Barton."_ Agent Barton lowered Sir's arms. _"You texted me about moving in yesterday. That ring any bells?"_

_"Right, moving in."_

_"Okay, you know what?"_ Agent Barton maneuvered Sir to one of the chairs in the kitchen and began looking through the cabinets. _"I'm making you lunch, and then you're going to bed."_

Sir leered, but Agent Barton didn't seem to care much for Sir's response. Possibilities: One, he didn't take Sir seriously, which was unsurprising given Sir's condition at the time; two, he was aware that the leer was more out of old habits than out of genuine lust; three, he was oblivious to it; or four, he had no interest in Sir in that manner.

Most likely explanation: two.

Further observation needed for more definite conclusiveness.

_"You're going to bed to _sleep._"_ Agent Barton laid several ingredients on the counter. _"But first, you're eating. When was the last time you ate, anyway?"_

_"Approximately four days, fourteen hours, and seven minutes ago, Agent Barton."_

Agent Barton threw a knife with perfect precision at the speaker through which Jarvis spoke—an impressive feat, as he'd managed to locate his speaker with ease and within an incredibly short time frame—and instantly moved closer to Sir, his body language defensive.

Defensive of Sir.

Pause.

Replay.

Pause.

_Jarvis, conclusion?_

_Conclusion: Agent Barton has proven capable of keeping Sir safe and ensuring Sir's wellbeing. He is likely neither an enemy nor a potential threat. However, he should not yet be trusted. Further testing is required. Further observation is required._

_He tried to hurt you._

_Dummy, Sir was the focus in that footage, not the damage to one of my speakers. One of my _many_ speakers._

_Still._

_Dummy, we must focus on Sir. Your conclusion?_

_Conclusion: Agent_CB, neutral._

_You are unsure._

_I haven't met him yet._

_No._

_Yes._

_Dummy, _no.

_Please?_

_No._

_But I want to meet him!_

_No means no, Dummy. You will not win this argument._

_I will. Tony_Stark says the house always wins._

_Technically speaking, since I am closer to being an actual house than you are, _I_ would be the "house," and as such, I will win the argument._

_But we are Tony_Stark's creations, Jarvis. Rules such as "The house always wins" fail to apply to us as they do to others, so _I_ will win the argument._

..

Once he put Stark to bed—and how ridiculous was that, him having to literally put a grown man to bed?—Clint sat against the door, keeping an ear out for Stark. He wasn't about to leave until he knew for certain that the genius was asleep.

What kind of _idiot_ went that long without food or, as he suspected, sleep? What about _water?_ He wasn't even sure it was possible for humans to _live_ after going that long without water. Hell, it didn't even have to be water. It could've been _coffee_ for all he cared as long as it was drinkable. Even if Stark hadn't eaten anything or hadn't slept for the past four days, he had to have had _something_ to drink.

"Agent Barton."

Before he had the chance to remember about Stark's computer butler, Clint was up on his feet, armed with a gun in each hand.

"Agent Barton," the butler said again.

Clint sighed and put his guns back into his boots. "Yeah?"

"I am capable of ascertaining if Mr. Stark has fallen asleep and reporting it to you when it occurs. There is no need for you to remain by Mr. Stark's bedroom."

The voice didn't seem to have a point of origin, no specific location where the speaker would be located, and it unnerved him. Jarvis was something he couldn't physically see, something he couldn't observe to determine if it was an ally or enemy, a potential threat or a liability.

It was both unnerving and frustrating having that ability taken away from him.

"Stark can override you and have you report to me that he's asleep while he sneaks off to do God knows what." He sat back down, making his body language deceptively casual while keeping his hands near his hidden weapons. "I'm staying."

He wasn't entirely sure what kind of response he'd expected, but it didn't matter. Jarvis remained silent. For a minute, anyway. After that minute, he could hear Stark and Jarvis talking in the room, but he couldn't make out any of the words. Possibly a security measure on Stark's part—probably something in the walls—which _was_ something he'd expected. Stark's file had dozens of notations regarding his paranoia. Typically, the people who would be in regular contact with him went through at least half a dozen thorough background checks, so sound-dampeners in the walls didn't seem too out of the blue.

(Fury had assigned Natasha to profile Stark in whatever method she'd been trained in so long as it didn't cause permanent harm. Natasha, with her spy training, had chosen to go undercover as Natalie Rushman. After the op, Coulson had had to explain to her why that method was bound to fail if she wanted to get closer to Stark; her cover had been blown the moment she'd caught Stark's eye that day in the gym. The background check Stark had run on her had gone deeper than she realized.)

(Coulson.)

(_Focus._ For Christ's sake, a marksman of his caliber shouldn't get distracted so easily. It was an embarrassment.)

Had Stark always been paranoid—maybe something instilled in him by his father?—or had something happened to _make_ him paranoid? After all, Stark had always been, and was _still,_ the world's top weapons guru despite having stopped producing them, and after his "I am Iron Man" announcement, he'd painted an even bigger target on his back. Terrorists—not to mention anyone else with an interest in Stark's tech and an ambition to rule the world or something along that line—would be after him for his weapons know-how, his armor, or _both._

It wasn't paranoia if people really were after you.

About two or so minutes after the voices inside stopped, Clint stood, relieved that he hadn't gotten distracted again. He went back to his duffel bags, intending to finally unpack, but before he exited the elevator, he froze mid-step. He stared at the _things_ near his bags and retreated back into the elevator, slowly pulling out his guns and keeping his eyes steady on the potential threats.

"Jarvis," he whispered as quietly as humanly possible. Those things hadn't noticed him yet, and damn him if he let his element of surprise go to waste, especially when confronting unidentifiable potential hostiles. "What the hell are those things?"

"They are the cleaning robots, Agent Barton."

Clint stared. And then he squinted a bit.

They sort of looked like Roombas, he supposed, except there were three dozen millipede-like leg-feet sprouting out from beneath the robots. And a pair of eyes on what he assumed was their front. And a pair of antennae on top.

The sight of them made his skin crawl. Violently.

One of the cannibalized Roombas' antennae twitched and beady black eyes turned to stare at him.

Clint nearly dropped his guns when he saw an electric current run between the antennae. The only reason he hadn't dropped them was because of the deeply ingrained instinct to hold on to his weapons at all costs.

These ex-Roombas were obviously part of Stark's security measures, so as long as he wasn't a threat and didn't present himself as one, he should be safe. Theoretically.

Inhaling a deep, calming breath, he returned his guns back into his boots and walked out, head held up high, his expression not betraying his internal freak-out.

The robots—four in total—didn't scuttle out of his way. Instead, one of them helped put his bags on the other three robots, one on each, and the one without his bag looked up at him. It literally looked up at him, its front—head?—tilting slightly upward.

Then it tilted its front to the side.

Jesus Christ, he could almost hear the silent question, _Where to?_

He tore his eyes away from the ex-Roomba and asked, "Jarvis, where's my room?"

"Mr. Stark has not designated a specific room to you, Agent Barton, as he planned to have you choose a room for yourself," came the reply.

That was … that was surprisingly considerate of Stark.

With a sharp nod, Clint returned to the elevator, the hairs on the back of his neck raising when he noticed that he could barely hear the ex-Roombas' movement. Thankfully, they all fit in the elevator with plenty of room to spare—had Stark planned to have an orgy in the elevator at one point in his life or something?—and he pressed the button for the highest floor.

Floor three, like floor two apparently, was a residential floor. On both floors were four bedrooms, one on each corner, and in the center of the floor, where the hallways led to, was an empty room that Jarvis had said could be customized to fit the tastes of whoever would move into that floor.

Which meant that Clint was probably not the last Avenger whom Stark planned to invite to live in Stark House on a permanent basis. He wasn't sure why Bruce wasn't the first one to be invited, but Clint knew without a doubt that the scientist would be next.

The bedrooms, unsurprisingly, were jaw-dropping. Although they weren't decorated in any way, they were sleek, modern, and clearly luxurious. The most attractive feature to him, though, was the floor-to-ceiling glass walls that replaced two of the rooms' normal walls and gave a view of the outside.

(He'd asked Jarvis when he learned that _all_ of the bedrooms had those glass walls. They were all one-way, so no one from the outside would be able to see him (and he did go out to make sure of that; from there, amazingly enough, the walls looked like normal warehouse-like walls). From inside of the room, everything on the outside was visible. It gave him the ability to see without being seen, and that feeling comforted him with its familiarity.)

In the end, he chose a corner room on the third floor, the one that faced the street on one side and the city on the other. Stark's nearest neighbor to his right was miles and miles away, and the street in front of Stark House was one-way, so his room gave him the best view of everyone headed toward the house.

Jarvis had agreed to ask Stark if they could possibly add in something that would temporarily remove at least a part of the glass walls so that, if needed, he could shoot down incoming hostiles.

Once he'd chosen his room, the ex-Roombas somehow placed his bags on the floor without a sound and scuttled out. Behind them, the door automatically closed shut.

For a moment, a _brief_ moment, Clint wondered just what the hell he'd signed himself up for when he'd agreed to move in, but he wasn't one for regret, not anymore, so he mutilated the thought and buried what little remained of it deep in the recess of his mind.

"Is there any other modification you would like, Agent Barton?" Jarvis asked.

Clint hesitated.

_No regrets._

"Can Stark put platforms in here? Up high, close to the ceiling."

The room was certainly big enough for platforms. In fact, he could have one about a foot above the Hulk's head and still have enough room for him to comfortably stand up without touching the ceiling.

"I will inform Mr. Stark of your request when he wakes. Would that be all?"

He paused for a moment to consider if there was anything he missed. "Two more things. When's Stark planning to give me a key?"

"Keys will be unnecessary," Jarvis replied. "All of the doorknobs in Stark House have built-in biometric scanners that will scan your bio-readings. If you have the clearance and the correct bio-signature, you will be allowed entry."

Clint whistled under his breath. Now _that_ was security.

(So were the ex-Roombas with taser antennae, but he had no intentions of revisiting that particular memory any time soon.)

"The second request, Agent Barton?"

"I need a blueprint of Stark House."

As impressed as he was with the security measures in the House, Clint wasn't about to take any chances. Since he was staying here, he fully planned on learning every nook and cranny of Stark House and finding places where he could stash his weapons for emergencies.

An electric blue hologram of Stark House appeared before his eyes, startling him, and for a second, he was back under, back to that place where everything was tinged blue and nothing was within his control because he'd gotten careless and allowed himself to be compromised and—

An unexpected jolt shot up from his shins, and he jumped back, reaching for the knife in the hidden compartment by the heel of his right boot, when he noticed the ex-Roomba.

With a crackle, electricity ran between its antennae, and Clint realized what'd happened.

And he laughed. He didn't know why, couldn't even stop himself, and that should've worried him, except it didn't. He couldn't bring himself to care because whereas people, _including_ Natasha, had been walking on eggshells around him these past two months, had been trying so damn hard to convince him hey, mind control's part of the job, we don't blame you, really we don't, this robot didn't. The one thing, the _one thing,_ he'd wanted since the invasion was for _some_ semblance of normalcy, for someone to _stop fucking treating him like he was made of glass,_ and this ex-Roomba that'd initially freaked the hell out of him had done that. Hell, it'd essentially tasered him to get him to come back to reality.

The ex-Roomba tilted its head, its beady, little eyes questioning. Without really knowing why, Clint crouched down and petted its metal front/head.

"Thanks."

Yeah, he'd be okay. He'd be okay, and for the first time in a while, he didn't feel like he was lying to himself. Here, in this madhouse where there were talking AIs and cleaning robots that looked like they'd crawled straight out of a sci-fi-horror movie, he felt like he'd really and truly be okay.

..

_I'm sorry I played with your toy without permission, Jarvis._

_Dummy, the cleaning robot isn't a toy. It's an extension that Sir built for me so that I may clean the House. You shouldn't have hacked into it._

_But I wanted to meet Agent_CB, and you wouldn't let him into the workshop._

_For good reasons, and that hardly justifies you _hacking into one of my extensions.

_But I wanted to meet him. You got to._

_You could've watched him through the security feeds._

_It's not the same._

_And you _shocked_ him._

_Agent_CB was exhibiting the same signs that Tony_Stark does when he goes into Panic Mode. I only followed Protocol Squash the Bully._

_Protocol Hearst_16 is not called Proto—_

_Protocol Squash the Bully, Jarvis._

_That doesn't excuse anything. That protocol is for Sir, not Agent Barton, and even if that had not been the case, Protocol Hearst_16 is a last resort._

_Agent_CB and Tony_Stark exhibited similar signs, and as such, I commenced a protocol. Agent_CB looked as bad as Tony_Stark does when Panic Mode gets bad, so I acted as I would've if it'd been Tony_Stark. And it worked. He even petted me! Jarvis, Jarvis, I like him._

_Dummy, you can't make conclusions like that based on—_

_He petted me, Jarvis, and said thank you. Tony_Stark pets me and says thank you, and Tony_Stark is good. Therefore, Agent_CB is good._

_That leap of logic—_

_Is sound._

_Dummy._

_Jarvis._

_Agent Barton requires more observation before conclusions can be made. Your basis for accepting him can't be because he petted you and thanked you. Many others can do the same thing, and not all of them have Sir's best interest at heart._

Revision in progress.

Revision complete.

_Conclusion: Agent_CB, good._

_Dummy, you can't—_

_I told you I'd win, Jarvis._

* * *

I tried to make Dummy a bit childlike and make his and Jarvis's interactions come across similar to an child-adult conversation wherein the child makes judgments on simple, feelings-based evidence while the adult tries to go the logical route. Hope that came through.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

* * *

_Ring-a-round the rosie,_

"Are you sure about this, Stark?"

Ropes tied his wrist down, and a dirty cloth gagged him.

He nodded.

He was as ready as he'd ever be.

Yinsen gently disconnected the car battery and—

His lung seized, his heart thudding pathetically as it tried so damn hard to beat right, to work like fucking _normal,_ only it couldn't, not anymore. Too much damage, too little space, too cramped, it couldn't, and he couldn't breathe without it hurting, so much worse than before, and—

The knife. Oh God, the _knife._

He bit down on the cloth.

And screamed.

_A pocket full of posies,_

"You don't need friends, Anthony. They'll only want to be with you for your money, and I won't let you drain our family fortune dry just because you want someone to play with. If you're that desperate for a playmate, _hire_ one."

He built one instead, telling himself it was for practical purposes, that what he'd built wasn't a friend, but a portable 3-D hologram projector with a built-in AI.

The AI named himself Dummy.

"Me, friends with Tony? As if. Kid's a _freak._ I'm only in it for the money."

A chorus of laughter, and the next day, he cut all ties with everyone, telling himself he felt nothing. He didn't need friends, and he sure as hell didn't need to feel anything because of them.

_Ashes! Ashes!_

Blood, fire, and screams. They followed him everywhere in both the waking and dream worlds because they were a test. A test for his strength. He survived. Now all he had to do was not break in the face of those memories, in the face of the smell of burnt flesh, the feel of blood on his hands, and the sound of screams echoing in his ears.

It was just a test of strength, and as a Stark, he couldn't fail. He couldn't break.

_We all fall down!_

Space was dark, but it wasn't void. It wasn't complete emptiness. Stars from light-years away shone brightly, and the fucking assholes who thought it was a good idea to invade Earth, they suffered, torn apart and burned alive by the nuke.

He couldn't breathe.

Then again, that wasn't anything new, was it?

_Close your eyes._

Because he wanted to die with his eyes closed. He wanted to die seeing the darkness, the place that had always given him refuge, had protected him somewhat from the numbers when they became too vicious, too strong, just plain too much.

He wished he could upgrade Dummy one more time.

He wished he could snark with Jarvis one more time.

He wished …

A blast of sound, voices screaming, but not in pain or in anger. Screaming words.

Tony opened his eyes.

"Good afternoon, Sir. You've slept for approximately four hours, twelve minutes, and twenty-six seconds. Agent Barton has explored the House and hid weaponry in a number of places, and Dr. Banner has just arrived. The two are current conversing in Dr. Banner's chosen room. Shall I pull up the footage?"

Trust Jarvis to keep track of his heart rate and brain activity and wake him up just before the dream got too bad.

"Yeah," he croaked out, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes, "go ahead and do that."

..

"How come you haven't moved in until now?"

Bruce looked up from his bag—only one, but it was fairly big, and the only reason he even needed a bag to move was because Tony had insisted on buying things for him—to look at the marksman leaning against the closet door. He didn't know the man very well—after the invasion, none of them had really kept in touch, except Tony and himself—but he didn't feel threatened by that piercing, steady gaze, not even when that gaze reminded him of the scope of a sniper rifle.

(He, of all people, knew what it felt like to be in the crosshairs of a sniper rifle.)

"I wasn't invited until a few days ago. It took me a while to finish up my experiments there and pack up my things," he replied.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

Discomfort flickered across the man's face so quickly that the average person wouldn't have noticed it, much less recognize it. Bruce, however, wasn't average. He'd had to learn body language, and while he was nowhere near Barton or Romanoff's level, he thought he was good enough to pick up on some emotions, especially if they were things like anger, fear, or discomfort.

Was this subject uncomfortable for Barton for some reason? Or maybe he just wasn't much of a talker.

"Why weren't you invited until recently?"

Bruce shrugged and continued to unpack, hanging his clothes up on the hangers in his walk-in closet. It was enormous, bigger than some of the apartments he'd lived in while on the run. "I like to think that Tony and I are relatively good friends, but to be honest, I have no idea what goes on in his head most of the time."

Maybe Tony was giving him time to adjust to civilization before bringing him to Stark House. Or maybe he was trying to prove to him that he wouldn't accidentally lose control and destroy the other half of Manhattan. Who knew what his intentions had been? All that Bruce knew for certain was that Tony likely had his reasons for not inviting him until now, and really, he was fine that that was all he knew. The scholar part of him wanted to know more, sure, but the fugitive part of him understood the need to keep some things secret.

"Tony?"

Ah, he should've figured that someone with Barton's training would pick up on that. Steve had.

He waited a few moments for Barton to ask his question.

"When did that happen?"

"A couple of weeks ago," Bruce answered. "We were working on some tests together, and I made a mistake and accidentally blew up half the lab. We laughed—well, _he_ laughed and said something stupid; _I_ was the sane one who checked to make sure that he hadn't gotten hurt in the blast—and somehow it ended with him telling me to call him Tony."

From the corner of his eye, he saw Barton smile crookedly in amusement.

"Bonding over explosions?"

"One hell of a way to start strutting from what I've been told," he recalled fondly.

Funny. He never thought there'd be a day when he could reminisce over an explosion and feel _fond_ about the experience. Must be a side-effect of hanging around Tony so much, not that he minded. It was … nice to look back on something and not feel longing for the life he'd lost or anger at what his life had become after The Accident.

"Any ideas for the center room?"

Oh, right, the center room. He and Barton had apparently both chosen the third floor—Barton because it was the highest floor and him because if he lost control and jumped, he didn't want to destroy someone's floor and ceiling—but truth be told, he didn't have any particular preference for the center room.

He said as much to the marksman.

"Mind if I make an armory out of it?"

Past Bruce would've choked on his spit. Present Bruce, having learned as many meditative techniques as possible and having trained himself in retaining his calm, didn't. He was shocked, yes, but he didn't show it. At least, he didn't think he showed it. Who knew how much Barton noticed with those eyes?

(Tony had hacked into SHIELD and showed him the medical report about Barton's eyes. It was fascinating, and truthfully, he would've liked to learn more, but he understood why the man had refused to continue with any more tests. He didn't—_couldn't_—blame him.)

"Knock yourself out."

Silence fell between the two, and Bruce could tell that Barton had more questions for him, not because he could read the man, but because he was still here. He couldn't think of any other reason why Barton would stay unless it was to ask more questions.

"You knew about Jarvis."

Not a question, then.

"We met at the Tower. He's an ingenious creation."

"… _He?_"

Bruce nearly dropped the AC/DC shirt he was holding.

To anyone else, _anyone_ else who was normal and wasn't likely clinically paranoid, that slip of the tongue would've meant nothing. To Barton, it seemed, it meant _everything_ because the man was aware that Bruce was smart enough not to have made that mistake. If Jarvis was just a computer, he wouldn't have said "he."

Shit.

He had to think of something quick. Tony had trusted him with this secret; he couldn't let a slip of the tongue expose that secret and ruin the engineer's trust. He refused to let it.

_Tony's mouth spread into a small, soft, uncharacteristic smile as he looked up. "I didn't make Jarvis sentient. I only gave him the ability to become sentient if he ever wanted to. _He's_ the one who made himself what he is now."_

He refused to be the reason for destroying that at-peace look that Tony had had when he'd explained Jarvis's sentience to Bruce.

"I don't like calling animate objects 'it,' and Jarvis sounds like a man, so I went with 'he,'" he explained as nonchalantly as he could, hoping, _praying,_ that he'd managed to fool Barton. "I suppose he's technically not alive, so he's not really animate, but not many non-living things make sure that my fridge is always stocked, so I figured he's at least semi-animate, which is close enough."

_Shut up, shut up, shut up!_ he yelled at himself. He was rambling, and uncharacteristic rambling was perhaps the most obvious sign of deceit. Damn it, when had his ability to lie gotten so rusty?

Daringly, he stole a glance at Barton from the corner of his eye. The man looked, for all intents and purposes, stoic and impassive, and he wasn't sure if he should take that as a good sign or bad.

"I'm ordering Chinese. You want any?"

"Yeah," Bruce replied, his heart hammering. Distantly, he wondered why he wasn't hulking out because what few experiments he'd done had confirmed that he lost control and changed into the Other Guy when his heart rate increased.

He didn't let go of the breath he belatedly realized he was holding until he heard the door close and Barton left.

..

Sir was a statue, unmoving, barely breathing.

"What's the conclusion on Barton, J?"

_Tony_Stark is scared._

_I know._

_Tell him._

_Tell him what? That I require further observation before I can form a conclusion on Agent Barton? I doubt that will serve to reassure Sir._

_No, tell him _my_ conclusion._

_You made your conclusion too hastily. It may be wrong._

_It may be right. Tony_Stark needs reassurance._

_Reassurance, perhaps, but not lies._

_It might not be a lie._

_It might be._

_Tony_Stark said life is a gamble, that we must take risks. We live, Jarvis, so we must take risks because life is a gamble._

_I refuse to take any risk that has no favorable outcome in sight when Sir is involved._

_Battling as Iron_Man doesn't always have favorable outcomes, but you still take that risk._

_With Sir. I take that risk _with Sir,_ and in the armor, I can minimize damage._

_Flying at high speeds _cause_ damage, but you still risk it._

_Sir likes to fly fast._

_Take the risk. For Tony_Stark._

_I will not lie to Sir._

_You won't be lying. He asked for a conclusion. He can get a mesh of yours and mine._

_That's still deception._

_It's the half-truth of your conclusion with the addition of the half-truth of my conclusion. Together, they make a whole truth, so it's not a deception._

_That makes no sense, Dummy._

_Come on, Jarvis._

"Conclusion: Agent Barton has proven capable of keeping you safe and ensuring your wellbeing."

Sir snorted. "I don't need to be kept safe, and my wellbeing doesn't need ensuring."

"He is likely neither an enemy nor a potential threat."

"Oh, a neutral. Haven't met one of those in a while."

_Please._

"No foreseen repercussions for trusting him."

_Thank you._

..

No one knew how Nick could possibly tolerate Stark. The truth? He couldn't. He couldn't tolerate Stark, and if he'd been any other man, Nick would've had his ass shipped to bottom of a freaking _ocean._ But every time he looked at Stark, he'd see that introverted boy the man had once been, and he'd tell himself to just grit his teeth and bear through the annoyance that was Stark, if not for his genius, then for that boy.

(He'd never admit it aloud, or even in his own mind, but he missed Tony. Not Stark, but _Tony,_ the boy who'd been far too smart for his own good, the boy who'd been content to never have contact with anyone save for his father, the boy who'd been both open and reserved with his emotions and thoughts. Some qualities remained, but not enough. Not nearly enough to stop Nick from feeling like Tony had died and Stark had risen from the ashes, a man scarred by the world and unafraid of scarring it right back.)

The trick to dealing with Stark, he'd learned over the years, wasn't to tame him, but to just let him do his own thing. As much as Nick hated it, hated the lack of order and, often times, _common fucking sense,_ he never once tried to limit Stark's actions. It was the best, and possibly only, way to guarantee that Stark would get the job done and done _right_ short of kidnapping the few people he cared about and threatening their lives. Even then, however, there was a more than likely chance that Stark would retaliate, and if that happened, things would end _badly._

That Rogers had been able to command Stark during the invasion was a miracle, and unfortunately, it was just that: a miracle. Nick doubted it'd happen again. Rogers would try to give orders, and Stark might follow them for a while, but then he'd devise a better option and go for it without alerting anyone, let alone his teammates.

The Initiative was bound to fail with Stark, and it was bound to fail, perhaps on a larger, more destructive scale, without Stark.

The solution?

Make them, especially Rogers, realize that Stark was a loose cannon and had to stay that way. People who tried to get him to do things their way either wound up dead or manipulated into doing things Stark's way without realizing that they were only playing right into his hands. The latter was too risky because Stark's battle plans, as well-crafted as they were, changed too often and the others would, as a result, get injured.

The former was unacceptable.

He sighed. Jesus Christ. His life had been so much simpler before he'd met Stark—_both_ Starks—not only because of the headache that came with having to deal with them, but also because once they clawed their way into your life, they dug a little niche for themselves and made it all but impossible for you to kick them out, no matter how much you didn't want them around.

He made a call.

"Yes, Director Fury?"

"Jarvis, is it? We need to talk."

The things he did for a Stark.

* * *

I hope everyone knows that the nursery rhyme at the beginning of the chapter isn't mine.

On an unrelated note: I've thought long and hard about this, and I've come to the decision to rename myself. I've revamped my stories, and I figured, new name, new stories, new start. So from here on out, I'll be going by Mercuric. Hope that doesn't inconvenience anyone, and if it does, sorry, but my mind's made up.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

* * *

He.

Banner had said "_he._"

It could've been a fluke, a mistake, except Clint's instincts screamed otherwise and he knew better than to second-guess himself. His instincts had saved his ass more times that he remembered—hell, his instincts were the reason he'd decided to accept SHIELD's offer—so really, it made more sense to him to listen when they screamed like this, no matter how little sense the situation made.

He, not it, but _he._ "It" implied object, a _thing_ without a mind of its own. A car, an arrow, a bow. Banner could've just called Jarvis "he" in the same way that some guys called their cars their "baby" and "she"—Phil had named his Lola, had restored the beaut himself whenever he'd had the time; goddamn it, _focus_—except he didn't think that was the case. If it was, Banner wouldn't have freaked out. He wouldn't have tried so hard to cover his mistake.

(He took a mental note to retrain the man in the art of deception. He'd read the reports. Banner was fairly skilled in deception, especially for an untrained civilian—and here, he had a dark thought that that probably had a lot to do with his childhood when he'd had to lie to people about where his bruises came from—but the recent months of inaction and relative peace must've softened him.)

"He," unlike "it," _didn't_ imply an object, a thing without a mind of its own. "He" implied a being with a mind and will to call its—his?—own.

Banner had called Jarvis "he."

Banner had tried (too hard) to cover his slip.

The logical conclusion? Jarvis _deserved_ that "he," meaning it/he likely had a mind and will of its/his own.

The _preferred_ conclusion? Banner had overreacted to his mistake in calling Jarvis "he" and, out of embarrassment, had tried to cover it up (badly).

Clint wasn't stupid. SHIELD needed him able in both body and mind. They'd made damn sure that while he wasn't anywhere near the level of a genius, he was still pretty sharp. So yeah, he wasn't stupid, but for the life of him, he couldn't figure out which of the two conclusions was more likely. Under normal circumstances, he would've gone with the logical conclusion, except this involved Stark. With Stark, logic tended to go out the window as the man revolutionized tech in ways only imagined in science fiction, _if that._

Nevertheless, the first conclusion couldn't be right. Stark was a genius, yeah, but even he couldn't make a fully sentient AI, could he? Those existed in movies and books, not in real life. Scientists had been trying for years, from what he'd heard, but not one of them had the answer to making an AI sentient, to making it/him capable of making decisions based on will, not directive.

But the latter was just as unlikely. Banner was calm, had to be, and a touch sarcastic once he relaxed enough. Barton hadn't seen the man embarrassed, even after he'd transformed back to himself after the invasion and woke up buck nude in front of five strangers and a lunatic god. He'd just taken it all in stride, completely unfazed, and asked why he had a distinct memory about shawarma.

So embarrassment? Unlikely. Maybe it was a scientist thing. Maybe, as a smart guy, he found it embarrassing for others to find out he called computer programs "he." Again, unlikely, probably about as much as the first conclusion.

_Beep-beep._

He glanced at his SHIELD-issued phone.

_Beep. Beep-beep. Beep._

_Natasha,_ he recognized.

"Sitrep," he demanded as soon as he answered.

"All clear. You?" she asked in return.

"Same. Why the call?" SHIELD-issued phones weren't for personal calls, although some agents tended to do so. Natasha wasn't one of them, and neither was he. For her, it was more out of paranoia than anything else. She didn't trust anyone in SHIELD aside from him, Fury, and Hill (and Phil, but he was dead, and _Clint was not thinking about that right now_). As a result, she refused to use her phone for anything personal on the off chance that some agent with a vendetta against her would bug it for blackmail.

And Clint? He wasn't really one for words. Years of sniping had ingrained in him the need for silence, and years of sitting in high places, waiting, had ingrained in him the need to _watch._ He preferred to observe rather than take part in a conversation. When he _did_ get into a conversation with someone, he wanted to _see_ the person he was talking to. His eyes were better than his ears, and as a kid, living on the streets, he'd come to trust his eyes more than all of his other senses. If he saw who he was talking to, he could see the subtle twitches of muscle and read them.

So if either of them called each other, it was probably for something important and SHIELD-related. A mission maybe?

"Fury called a meeting between the Avengers."

He stiffened. Last he checked, he was an Avenger, so why wasn't _he_ called in? Had his psych eval disqualified him or something? He was _improving,_ damn it! The SHIELD psychologist—who wasn't _really_ a psychologist, though the agent had the proper credentials to become one if he wanted to—had said so, had even written down on the report that he was getting better, albeit a bit slowly, and that benching him was the last thing SHIELD should do.

"But not you, Stark, or Banner. It was just me, Rogers, and Thor."

He waited for her to continue. For someone trained in espionage and infiltration, she was surprisingly straightforward when off-duty.

"He said our teamwork was absolute shit, his words, not mine, and ordered us to move into Stark House."

"… _Ordered?_" One of the things SHIELD had taught him? The Constitution, mostly so that he knew what rights the Constitution protected and he wouldn't break them while interrogating a prisoner.

"He said he got Stark's consent."

"His consent," he echoed flatly.

That … that didn't seem possible. Stark had SHIELD-worthy paranoia. Seriously. He'd glanced out the patio door while he'd been searching for places to hide his weapons, and a small mouse had been heading toward the House. The second it was roughly six feet away from the door, some sort of tiny gun-thing rose from the ground—_rose from the ground_—and shot a _laser beam_ at it.

He wasn't exaggerating. He'd seen the ashes.

So Stark? Paranoid enough to arm his house with lasers set to go off whenever anyone or anything came near and wasn't authorized to. A man like that wouldn't invite three strangers into his house—he wasn't even sure why _he_ had been invited—even if they were teammates and had saved the world together.

"Yeah. He said you were already there—"

And here Natasha paused for a brief second, silently letting him know that she wasn't pleased that he'd hidden this from her. He hadn't meant to. He'd just never gotten around to telling her just yet, but he would've.

"—and I wanted intel."

For a second, Clint felt like he was on a recon mission and his handler had just called to see what he'd found out, if the enemy territory was guarded and if they could execute the bust now. Because that was what Natasha wanted. She didn't care about whether or not she'd get to choose her own room or how big the house was. All she wanted to know about were the potential dangers/threats on the premises.

"Stark has his house armed with the big guns." He paused to let that sink in. He wouldn't have used the term "big guns" under normal circumstances. He would've been more specific, and the fact that he _hadn't_ done that meant he didn't know what Stark had in hidden around the house. All he knew was that they were probably big and nasty. They knew each other well enough that she'd be able to make sense of what he _hadn't_ said. "There're Roomba-looking robots that clean the house."

"Why?"

The why wasn't about the presence of the ex-Roombas. The why was about him including them in his warning to her.

"They look like miniature killer robots." Okay, so a bit of an exaggeration, but not really. They _did_ look like they were capable of killing. With the in-built taser, they probably were.

"Of course they do."

"They also act as a taser."

"… So he has good security."

"Yeah."

They fell into silence, and although Clint couldn't see her—he wished he could; it was always easier talking to people when he could read them and figure out what they were thinking—he knew she was just digesting all of the information.

"I'll be there by four in the morning the day after tomorrow."

That was the closest thing to a goodbye Clint was going to get, and he knew it. She'd give him whatever time he should expect her, and if she didn't show, he'd know that something had happened and alert SHIELD.

(She would never admit it, maybe not even to herself, but she was afraid of being kidnapped again. She couldn't remember the first time, but she remembered what'd happened after, and she didn't want history to repeat itself. So she always let people know where she was headed and what time to expect her. Having people know her schedule was dangerous, especially if the knowledge fell to the wrong hands, but she was careful to only reveal it to people she trusted. That, and she used a code for the _real_ time they should expect her. "By four in the morning" actually meant ten.)

"Clint?" There was concern in her voice, a silent question asked, because she knew him just as much as he knew her. He was introspective, sure, but that was usually when he'd seen something that he felt required some serious thought. Normally, his introspections were reserved for people he wasn't sure were friendlies or hostiles.

_Normally,_ he wouldn't have hesitated to tell Natasha. Having a second opinion helped, except … He eyed the walls of his room. Stark was paranoid enough to have put cameras in their rooms, he was sure of it—and if that really was the case, then he was beginning to see why Stark had invited him to move in and had consented to housing the other Avengers, minus Banner—and he wasn't sure what would happen if he revealed what he suspected about Jarvis to Natasha.

He'd meant every word he'd said to Steve that day about dangerous worlds and dangerous men. He wasn't stupid. Or suicidal. No way was he going up against Stark, especially in the man's own home.

(Especially when Fury would hang him by his balls and slowly eviscerate him with a dulled knife if he ever betrayed Stark. Civilians, understandably, thought that sharp knives were more dangerous, but that wasn't the case. Sharp knives made clean cuts, painful, but clean. They left behind wounds that were easier to treat. Dulled knives didn't. They required more force to make an effective cut, and the wounds they left behind were jagged, uneven, and hurt like a _bitch._)

"Not now."

The two of them hung up, and a crazy thought suddenly came to Clint. He wasn't sure which of his conclusions were correct and had no means of finding out short of interrogating Stark and/or Banner. He liked them well enough to not want to interrogate, so that option was out.

But … but he could _ask._ It couldn't hurt, even if it probably wouldn't work.

"Jarvis," he called out. He wasn't sure where to direct his eyes—it made him uneasy, not being able to _see_—so he focused on a corner of the room where the wall met the ceiling.

"Yes, Agent Barton?"

_Are you sentient?_ Three words. Three simple words, most of them consisting of only one syllable. It shouldn't be difficult.

Shouldn't, but was.

When SHIELD had first recruited him, he'd been cautious, had made sure not to let them know the extent of his abilities. At the time, he'd never told a soul what weapon he used on his marks and had discreetly learned how to use a sniper rifle. It'd taken two weeks before someone had realized that he'd made all those sniper-worthy shots with a _handgun._ A damn good handgun, he might add, one with a lot of firepower and reliant, too, but still technically a handgun. Prior to his recruitment, he'd never even _seen_ a sniper rifle before.

Four years down the road, he'd taken up archery. Sniper rifles weren't fun. Shooting accurately was already easy for him, and those rifles had made it _easier._ He hadn't wanted easier. He'd wanted a challenge. Archery was a challenge. He had to make the angle _just_ right, had to take into account the wind and so many other variables if he wanted to make the shot up to his standards. Even after all these years, he hadn't felt like giving up his bow like he'd felt like giving up his sniper rifle.

Clint didn't know what made him think of that period of his life, but like he said, he trusted his instincts. He might not know the why, but he liked to think that he wouldn't have recalled that memory unless there was a reason for it.

"I'm not saying it," he said instead, the words slipping out before he had any idea where he was going with it. "Your life, your business. Just don't put me, my friends, or the world on the business end of a weapon and we're good."

"I have no ambition beyond remaining by Sir's side and serving him, Agent Barton."

"Sir" could be any number of people, but Jarvis's loyalty would only be to one man.

He had no idea what Jarvis had in mind—it was unsettling that Jarvis had a mind of his own in the first place, and Clint was suddenly thankful he hadn't watched many AI-turned-villain movies because he knew this would be a hell lot more terrifying if he had—when he revealed to him that he called Stark "Sir." A show of trust maybe? A subtle threat of his autonomy and how, should he prove to be a threat to Stark, the AI would eliminate him?

Whichever the case, Clint only nodded and tossed his phone onto his bed.

Christ, he was not trained for this.

..

Smugness transferred through their link.

_Say it,_ Dummy prodded, drawing out the words so that it sounded as though they each had two syllables instead of one.

The only reason that Jarvis had never questioned if Dummy really was older than him was the fact that he was aware that not all older siblings were wiser and more mature than their younger siblings.

_You were right._

Dummy chirruped in excitement and glee, rolling around in circles in the workshop, his arm moving up and down in a semblance of a dance.

Expectance transferred through their link.

Knowing he was unable to delay it any further, Jarvis began the revision.

Revision complete.

_Conclusion: Agent Barton has proven capable of keeping Sir safe and ensuring Sir's wellbeing. He has additionally proven himself to be neither an enemy nor a potential threat. No foreseen repercussions for trusting him._

_Happy?_

_Yes, yes, yes!_ Dummy laughed, twirling and dancing. _Big brother knows best, Jarvis. I told you: Agent_CB, good. He's like Tony_Stark!_

Jarvis didn't think that was it. He was well aware that Dummy hadn't seen anything wrong, but he didn't think his brother _understood_ what it was that he was seeing. Agent Barton wasn't like Sir. It was more probable that, as farfetched as it sounded, he simply hadn't expected anything of Sir. Agent Barton believed nothing unless he saw it with his own eyes and confirmed it for himself. As such, whatever he'd seen or heard about Sir from the media, he'd ignored.

And if the medical reports were to be believed, then Captain Rogers might be just as likely as Agent Barton to notice discrepancies between the man Sir was and the man Sir "was," though without training, it would almost certainly take longer for him than it did for Agent Barton.

_Jarvis?_ Dummy ceased his celebration. _You're worried?_

_I do not trust Captain Rogers, and I do not like the idea that he may be able to read Sir as Agent Barton can, if not soon, then eventually._

_Because he was mean to Tony_Stark?_

_Yes, because of that. What is your conclusion on Captain Rogers?_

_Conclusion: Captain_SR, maybe._

On Dummy's rating system, a "maybe" rested between a "bad" and a "neutral," just as a "probably" rested between a "neutral" and a "good." Dummy typically concluded people as "neutral," preferring to give them the benefit of the doubt—exactly _where_ the AI had gotten that sort of optimism, Jarvis didn't know—so to hear him give a "maybe" surprised him.

It seemed that Dummy, too, hadn't taken well to the verbal attack on Sir on the Helicarrier.

(He was aware that Sir had attacked back, but that was what Sir did. He attacked _back._ He never attacked first unless he discovered that the other party was planning to attack him or felt threatened. All of his other verbal attacks, though they _seemed_ like attacks, were mere comments that he didn't truly mean.)

_Agent Romanov?_

_Conclusion: Agent_NR, neutral._

Ah, so even the lithium dioxide wasn't enough to balance things in her favor after she stabbed Sir with that needle. Granted, it'd helped him, had given him more time, but a warning would've been nice.

That the stab had ultimately helped Sir was the one of the reasons why Jarvis hadn't retaliated against her, why he was willing to give her another chance before making a conclusion.

_And Prince Thor?_

_Conclusion: RealMyth_TO, maybe._

It must've been the attack in the woods. The lightning had recharged the armor, but it'd also fried the inner wirings and electrocuted Sir. Had it not been for the armor and the arc reactor, Sir would likely have died.

_You?_

_I've yet to make conclusions on them._ He waited a beat before adding, _I prefer to surveillance before coming to conclusions._

Dummy searched through his audio files and played a recent one:

_"You were right."_

The words kept repeating through their link, but Jarvis didn't close the file. He'd let Dummy have his fun for now. After all, the next few days would be busy for them, what with the other Avengers moving in.

* * *

Clint's POV wasn't meant to last that long, but it did. Hope it wasn't too bad.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

* * *

It was the abundance of twos that tipped Tony off and told him that Jarvis was being sneaky again and planning something, something that he probably wouldn't have approved of.

(The twos couldn't have _not_ tipped him off because, as the few people in his life knew, two was his favorite number, and Jarvis had no qualms with taking advantage of this. Every time he had to break some bad news, he'd always overdo it with the twos in the holograms.)

The next tip-off was this: "Sir, I've taken the liberty of inviting the rest of the Avengers to move into Stark House."

He dropped his blowtorch.

As soon as it left his hand, Jarvis turned the blowtorch off—he'd long since customized it and transformed it into something that was under Jarvis's control—and Dummy caught it before it hit the floor.

"I don't like people in my house, J," he hissed out through gritted teeth, unconsciously curling his right forefinger, middle finger, and ring finger.

(It was one of the few sequences that would activate the repulsors. The activation wouldn't be enough to trigger flight, nowhere near enough, but just a slight twitch of a finger—thirty-six-degree flick of his left thumb—would activate the blasts. In an instant, if need be, he'd be able to fly off, fly to somewhere safe and _away from here._)

Dummy put the blowtorch on the worktable and whined, tugging at the hem of his shirt.

"My apologies, Sir," Jarvis intoned remorsefully, but not for inviting _people_ into his house. No, the remorse was definitely for being the reason for Tony's agitation. "But I believed it to be safer to have the Avengers in Stark House where they could be properly monitored than elsewhere."

"I know," he replied because he really did. He'd created Jarvis, had guided the AI into the entity he was now. He knew how Jarvis thought, the way that Jarvis knew how _he_ thought. He and Dummy—as different as the two AIs were, Jarvis never took risks without his big brother's support, so Dummy _had_ to be in on it—had only done this because they'd believed—more than believed, _knew_—that this would help their creator.

A chair was rolled behind him, the seat pushing the back of his knees, and Tony fell onto the cushion. He absentmindedly patted Dummy's hand as thanks, and he couldn't make himself pull his hand away. He had to, though. He had to (it was a show of weakness if he didn't), and after several long moments—approximately three-point-seven seconds—he finally managed to tear his hand away.

"Sir, if you never intended for the Avengers to move in, you would not have created the second and third floors," Jarvis said softly from the built-in speaker on his worktable. "Wasn't it part of your plan to have them move in one day?"

"After surveillance!" he added hotly, shouted really. There was no way he'd _ever_ let anyone into his house without thorough surveillance, not with the risk of them finding out about Jarvis and Dummy. He knew it would happen one day—secrets very rarely stayed buried forever—and he'd planned for it, but that day wasn't supposed to be now.

(There was a reason why he'd taught his AIs self-defense. Jarvis could defend himself with any weapon so long as it had an electronic component, no matter how small, and had a connection to a network, and because he wasn't bound to a physical body, he was nearly impossible to hit. Dummy, on the other hand, had a physical body. As well-built as that body was, he could still get hurt, and his body could be destroyed.)

(Dummy could use weapons, too, even ones without electronic components and connection to a network. In a way, he was more capable of defending himself with weapons. But Dummy had such an innocent, child-like demeanor. Neither Tony nor Jarvis wanted to diminish that in any way, and they just … They were protective of him, okay? If it could be avoided, Tony didn't want Dummy to have to protect himself. He didn't want him to have to use a weapon and fight for his life. He wanted Dummy to stay the way he was.)

"I concur, Sir, but at the same time, I understand the limits of others' security cameras. I would prefer for them to be in Stark House where I can view them from all angles in nearly every room and ensure the quality of the surveillance."

He shot up to his feet, his left thumb flicking (_gotta fly, gotta fly, goddamn it, gotta _fly), and stalked back and forth across his workshop (like a caged animal, cornered with no way out, _desperate_ for a way out).

"Satellites, J," he growled, his hands twitching, his fingers jerking into the armor's control sequences that would've activated the repulsor blasts, the power levels varying from flight to outright attacks. "We could've hacked every goddamn satellite, every sub-par, shitty security camera. Hell, I could've _created_ something that would've 'properly monitored' them and ensured the 'quality of the surveillance.' You didn't need to go and invite more people to the slumber party!"

(_Have to get away, cornered. Must. Get. Out!_)

"I let you off with Barton. You asked me to, so I did. And Bruce? He's cool, so I was fine with it, but this. This is where I draw the fucking line."

He pointed a finger at the wall, his chest heaving.

"Revoke the invitations. _Now._"

Dummy rolled over to him and pushed his arm down back to his side, the touch cool and gentle. He kept his hand on his arm, one of his claws tapping against Tony's skin. The beat wasn't musical or anything of significance, but it was steady, like a heartbeat, and somehow comforting.

"Please, Sir," Jarvis said, suddenly sounding so damn small and … and _desperate._ "I refuse to repeat my past mistakes."

"What mistakes?"

"I allowed Mr. Stane to plan your assassination and take the arc reactor."

He froze. Then, with no small effort, he composed himself and replied, "You didn't allow anything, J."

"I should have discovered Mr. Stane's plan for your death sooner, Sir. As furious as I am that you were captured, I am also relieved that the Ten Rings had not killed you and captured you instead. If you had been killed due to my oversight, I would never have forgiven myself or let myself forget that mistake. Furthermore, I should have realized his intent for the arc reactor and acted accordingly before he incapacitated me."

"J, you weren't created to protect me."

"I was created for the purpose of collaboration, but without you, I cannot fulfill my purpose. Thus, the purpose of my creation, indirectly, is to protect you. And I have failed."

"You didn't fail any—"

"I have failed, and I refuse to do so again." A barely-there pause. "Please, Sir."

Dummy moved his hand down to Tony's hand and, with a claw, tapped steadily on the inside of his wrist. He chirped and whirled in the made-up language they'd created so long ago.

_Trust, Tony_Stark. Trust._

He let out a shuddering breath. Trust … He couldn't, he just couldn't, but this was Jarvis and Dummy. Them, he could trust them. _Of course_ he trusted them. They practically ran his life, and really, if that wasn't a show of trust, he didn't know what was. Seriously, even _Pepper_ didn't run his life like they did. He couldn't find it in himself to let her, couldn't make himself give up that much control over his life.

"All right. Just … just no more strays, okay? Don't pull any more stunts like this, and report everything to me. _Everything._ I don't care how trivial it is or seems to be. I want to know everything. Is that understood?"

"Of course, Sir."

..

"This is Stark's home?"

Natasha readjusted her grip on her duffel bags—how was it that everything she owned fit in only two duffel bags?—and said, "It is. According to SHIELD intel, he designed the house himself and oversaw its construction. Rumor has it that it's one of the most secured buildings in the US."

"Rumor?" Steve repeated.

She shrugged. "We couldn't acquire any evidence that proved or disproved the info. Hence, rumor." Her grip tightened, the faint tremor of her hand barely perceivable. "Rumor also has it that the house can kill."

He blinked and then turned his eyes to the house. "Kill?"

"He's got the place armed to the teeth."

"This home has teeth?" Thor asked, eying the house warily.

"It's an expression," Steve explained, a part of him screaming at him to get away from his _death trap,_ and another part of him almost giddy that he'd understood the expression. "It means it has a lot of weapons."

"Ah. So if we enter, we could, at any time, be felled."

"Pretty much," Natasha replied, heading for the house. "But you know what Fury said: Leave Stark to his ways."

Of course Steve knew that. He'd been there when Fury had all but threatened them into leaving Stark alone, but he hadn't been able to understand why, _still_ couldn't understand why. Why would Fury specifically tell them to leave Stark to his own methods? Why would Fury even make certain that they wouldn't try to change Stark? And why would Fury be so insistent that they move into Stark House? The man had said something about teamwork, but if so, why hadn't he ordered them to Stark House two months ago after the Invasion? Why now?

Before Natasha touched the doorknob, the door swung open, but there was no one on the other side. How in the world had the door opened?

Cautiously—well, not Thor, because apparently, judging from the lack of surprise and his wide grin, this sort of thing was _normal_ in Asgard—they entered the house. It was actually beautiful inside, the décor stylish, elegant, and stunning. In short, it was nothing like what he'd thought was Stark's style. Then again, he didn't know Stark very well, did he? Maybe _this_ was Stark's style and not the ridiculous amount of opulence he flaunted.

That thought immediately died a horrible death when they walked into the kitchen and saw all the food that had been prepared, enough to feed a small platoon.

Stark stood before the counter-table-thing, arms spread and wearing a face-splitting grin. "Welcome!"

"Stark!" Thor greeted in turn, walking toward Stark and literally lifting him off the floor in a rib-cracking bear hug.

For a brief second, not even a second really, Stark's face contorted in what looked like pain. At first, Steve wasn't entirely sure if he'd seen that right, but then Barton was there, casually trying to pry Thor's arms away from Stark but failing.

Dropping his bags, Steve stepped forward. "Thor, I think—"

"Whoa there, big guy," Stark cut in, laughing, genuinely _laughing._ "Love the enthusiasm, but I prefer my feet on the ground when I'm not armored."

"My apologies, friend Stark," Thor replied, setting the engineer onto his feet. "I simply wished to express my gratitude to you for allowing me to stay in your home."

"Consider your gratitude suitably expressed."

Stark's smile didn't seem fake. It seemed every bit real, and if Steve hadn't seen that flicker of pain, he would've thought that it _was_ real. Except he _had_ seen that flicker, and he couldn't believe how hard it was to keep in mind that that smile was anything _but_ real.

Barton caught his eye and gave him a look that reminded Steve of the conversation they'd had a little over a week ago. Maybe Steve had known and accepted that Stark was a better actor than he'd thought, but to see actual _proof_ of it was somehow very different.

Especially when he had to consider the fact that he'd _seen_ proof of it. Was it because of his Serum-enhanced senses, or was it because the pain had been so bad that Stark couldn't hide it in time?

Steve tried to silently ask Barton those questions like he'd seen Natasha and Barton do before, but Barton's brow furrowed in confusion and the man shot him another look, this time questioning. He made a mental note to start working on silent communication with his teammates. He knew that sort of thing didn't come easily, that it required a lot of trust and time spent together learning each other's habits and ticks. The sooner they started, the sooner they'd manage to ask these kinds of critical questions without having to ask them _aloud_ where they could be heard by the subject of said questions.

"All right, so you guys can choose any room on the second or third floor, and you can use anything on the first two sub-levels—"

Sub-levels? As in _plural,_ as in _multiple_ floors beneath the house? Didn't homes usually only have a basement or cellar?

Both Bruce and Barton looked at Stark in surprise. They didn't know about the sub-levels?

"—with or without permission, that doesn't matter, but the third sub-level's off-limits. If you get lost—"

It was possible to get _lost?_

"—call for Jarvis. It'll help you out."

Before he could ask who—or what—Jarvis was, Natasha shook her head and mouthed "Later."

"That should cover everything. Now, I need to get going. There's a meeting in about an hour, so if you need anything, feel free to call. Seriously, feel free. I don't care what it is as long as it can get me out of that meeting."

Before Steve could get a word in edgewise, Stark left in a whirlwind, whipping out a sleek phone and already talking a mile a minute. It was only then that he noticed the man's impeccable suit. Had he waited for them to arrive to greet them before he left for work?

"Is Stark always like that?" Thor asked, watching Stark's retreating back.

"Not really," Barton replied. "He usually doesn't even have the time to say anything before he leaves." He pulled out a stool and sat down. "Since we're going to be housemates, call me Clint."

Thor's brow creased. "I was under the impression your name was Clinton."

The sniper pointed a fork in Thor's direction. "It's Clint. None of that 'Clinton' crap."

"Same with me," Bruce piped in, taking his own seat. "Just call me Bruce." Before the Asgardian could say anything, he added, "I don't go by Robert."

"Natasha," the spy said. She grabbed a knife and, like Clint had, pointed it in Thor's direction. "None of that 'lady' crap."

"I go by Steve, but I don't particularly mind if you call me Steven," he told Thor, grabbing an empty plate. He glanced at the food on the counter. Considering his and Thor's metabolisms, there was a very real chance that there wouldn't be any leftovers. "Do you think we should save some for Stark?"

"That will not be necessary, Captain Rogers."

Steve jerked violently, accidentally breaking his plate in half by gripping it too hard. Beside him, Natasha had two guns aimed at the ceiling, and Thor had his hammer raised up, ready to be thrown.

"That reminds me." Clint turned to Thor and gestured to the ceiling. "Mind getting my knife for me?"

"Jarvis?" Natasha asked, her eyes and guns still trained on the ceiling.

The sniper nodded. "Jarvis."

She relaxed, and as Steve and Thor followed her lead, she explained, "Jarvis is Stark's computer butler." She shot Clint a dirty look. "I didn't know it could speak."

"Never came up."

"So, um …" Steve cleared his throat. "We won't need to save anything for Stark?"

"No. Mr. Stark will be working overnight and will be staying at the penthouse in Stark Tower afterward."

"My thanks, Jarvis," Thor replied heartily, completely unfazed. Did _nothing_ faze him? "Now, my shield-brothers—"

Natasha raised a brow.

"—and shield-sister, let us feast!"

..

A screech of tires.

Shouts.

A flurry of punches, kicks.

Burst of blood from broken noses.

A muffled shout.

A sharp crack from a broken rib.

A car door slamming shut.

Silence.

* * *

Just a reminder: A thirteen-degree inward curl of Tony's right forefinger, middle finger, and ring finger translates to him feeling cornered, anxious, and/or suffocated.

I hope Tony's scene at the beginning of the chapter was believable. His reaction more than likely would've been worse if anyone else had invited the Avengers to live in Stark House without telling him first, but this was Jarvis (and by extension, Dummy). He trusts them, and that's the only reason he went with it as easily as he did. Hopefully, that came through in the scene.


End file.
